


White

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Wincestmas, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Blood Addiction, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Second Person, Season/Series 10, Spoilers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid can’t say you didn’t warn him. <i>What I’m gonna do to you, Sammy… Well, that ain’t gonna be mercy, either.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kissmebloody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmebloody/gifts).



_Well. Look at you._

Ruby’s knife. (That cunt.)

_Do it._

Blade presses cool against your throat. Sammy knows juuust how hard to bear down. Make you feel it but not break the skin. (Perfectly trained. You’re welcome.)

_It’s all you._

Hear Sam’s heartbeat, smell his fear. Pick out individual sweat drops joining up to trail down his neck.

(Think I’ll go to Hell again if I lick ’em up? Oh wait. Ha-ha-ha.)

Push your tongue against the back of your teeth. Lean on the edge. Goddamn First Blade barely stings. This little pigsticker might as well be a butter knife.

Don’t feel it when your skin splits. Feel the blood though, dribbling down. Sam’s nostrils flare. (Oh. Fuck. Yeah.)

_See somethin’ you like?_

Sam backs off. Knife clatters across the floor. Sammy’s shoulders (so skinny now) slump into the wall, head next to the gouged-out plaster. Back slides down as long legs buckle.

“Just kill me.”

_Aww, Sammy. I ain’t gonna kill you. Told ya. Let’s have a beer. Talk about it._

Slide a finger underneath a stubbled chin. Tilt up.

 _C’mon, baby boy._ (Hm, look at that jaw work.) _You know we can come… to an arrangement._

**

Sam bolts like a startled buck, first time you casually slit your palm, ball up your fist, drip blood on the library table. Bucks up second time.

“Stop it, Dean.”

Shrug. (Ain’t foolin’ me, kid.)

_’S’amatter, Sammy? Never minded a little blood before._

Frosty stare you get feels like old times. Itchy-weird where you heal like the goddamn Wolverine. Fingers flex.

_All better._

Little wave. Sammy’s jaw runs out and he looks away.

Third, fourth, fiftieth time… Stares start lingering. Lips get licked.

Kid haunts the Bunker. Holes up in his room. Ghosts out for the library, kitchen sometimes. Ain’t eatin’ enough. Keeps gettin’ skinnier.

_I could do somethin’ about that appetite, y’know._

Stutter-step in Sam’s retreat.

_Give you what you’re really hungry for?_

“Shut the fuck up.”

**

A goddamn vamp in Superior gets the drop. Takes a chunk of neck before you twist its filthy head off. Sammy kicks in the door and –

“Dean!” Barrels for you. (Just a reflex.) “You all right?”

_I’m peachy._

Stops cold. Wound’s not all the way closed. Blood soaks your shirts. Sammy’s eyes dilate, almost as black as yours. (Soon.) Head-roll, broken skin.

_Come get you a taste._

Sam’s chest falls, rises. Eyes close and teeth clench. Pulse pounds.

_Knight of Hell, ’79._

Suck a bloody thumb in your mouth. Tongue smacks against the roof.

_Hellova vintage, you ask me, but-ah. You’re the expert._

Sam scowls at the ceiling, throat exposed. “Knock it off, goddammit. We’ve got work to do.” About-face. Stalks for the door. “Get the body.”

_No._

Wrist flicks demon mojo and Sammy sails. Sticks to the wall. Fear-stink spikes.

“New trick?” Bitchy little brother with a splash of your own bravado.

Press against him. (I’m impressed.)

_Nah. Just not as much fun as throwin’ punches._

Bloodwet palm against a cheek. Sam’s head tilts, lookin’ like he can’t decide between nuzzle or flinch.

_Y’could fight me, y’know. If you were juiced._

A whimper. Eyes and nose and mouth squeezed tight.

Petting. Hair, neck, chest.

_Wouldn’t be the first time you went there to save me._

“Dean, no.”

Step back. Sammy crumples.

 _Ain’t gonna force you, Sammy. Want you to come to me, want it like you did that bitch._ (Wish I could bring her back so I could kill her again. Slow.)

“This isn’t you,” from his heap on the floor.

_That’s where you’re wrong, baby boy. This is all me. Well, minus the fucks I used to give._

Sling the vamp corpse over a shoulder. Split.

**

Sammy’s beatin’ off. (Attaboy.) Can hear it: slapping wet and ragged breath.

“Please, Dean.”

(Well fuck me runnin’.) Ain’t gonna pass this up. Sammy’s hands have fucked you up since before you could shave. Seein’em on his dick? Shiiit.

Pick Sam’s lock when you could rip hinges.

“What the Hell, Dean?” Scrambles. Jerks a pillow across his lap.

_Don’t stop on account of me._

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

_Nope. A man’s got needs. Shit. I’ll even let you put your magic cuffs on me._

“Those aren’t gonna hold you.”

 _Nah, but they’d slow me down._ Plop your ass in the desk chair. _C’mon, Sammy. Miss that big dick._

Silence. Kid’s eyes narrow. Then, “No touching.”

_Cross my heart._

“And keep yours in your pants.”

_Never let me have any fun._

Eye-roll. Knocks away the pillow though.

_Tell me what you’re thinkin’ about._

“Seriously?”

_Hell yeah! Always loved that dirty mouth._

“I-ah…” Hiss.

(Mmm. Bet he’s doin’ that fingernail thing.)

“Well… You’re cured.” Eye contact, longing. Just his fingertips teasing his dick. “And-uh, we wake up together.”

_Aww, you miss big brother’s cuddles?_

Pinched mouth. “No talking either.”

Zip-lip gesture.

“You’re-uh…” Thumb hooked over the base, scratching his balls. “You’re hard.” Slow slide, tip to root. “And you’re still half-asleep.” Slicking himself. “But you’re kind of –  nngh – rocking against me?” Thighs flex. “Not even sexual yet, not really. Just, pressing closer.” Eyes shut, head falls back. “And I-uh. Take your hand and I – ” Hiss. “ – wrap it around my cock.”

(God, damn.)

“Wanna show you. I’m hard too.”

(Fuck yeah, you are.)

“And you sorta, cup your hand over me,” demonstrates, “kiss at my neck.”

(Get to the part where I heard you begging.)

“And you’re sorta, fucking my hip and I’m fucking your hand and it’s not enough. I want you in me.”

_Aww, fuck._

Sam’s eyes snap open.

_Sorry. Sorry._

Gaze flicks down and he flushes red. “You can.” Swallows. “You can take it out.”

(Thank. Fuck.) Cock’s trying to bust clean through your zipper. Little bitchface when he figures out you’re stripping naked. Doesn’t cover up or throw you out though. Count it a win.

He’s strokin’. Slow. Chewin’ his lip when you sit back down, hands on your knees.

_’M I allowed to touch?_

“Would it matter if I said no?”

_’Course it would. Your barbecue, Sammy. I’ll take the meat however I can get it._

Aaaalmost a grin. “Still with the porn-reality thing, huh?”

_Been tellin’ ya. I’m still me._

Kid’s mouth curls like he stepped in dogshit. Killin’ the mood.

_I’ll shut up now. Go on._

Whisper: “You can touch.”

Fist a hand around your cock and groan.

“Want you back.” Finger-teasing again. “Want us back.” Spits in his hand. “Like… like that summer right after I graduated.” All business now. Jackin’ like he means it. “All those… motels… In the Impala… Fuck I think we… blew each other in… half the… truckstops in America.”

You remember. Nothin’ but drivin’ and killin’ and fuckin’. Fearless. Mental picture of Sam on his knees in a dirty stall, lookin’ up at you with tears on his cheeks. Bony fingers diggin’ in your thighs…

Sammy’s done talkin’. Jerkin’ his hips, fuckin’ his hand. Little grunts. Watch the sweat collect behind bent knees and roll up the backs of his thighs. And outta nowhere –

“Come with me, Dean.”

_Ohhoho fuck!_

Orgasm hits you so fast, all you can do not to crash to the floor. Sammy’s with you. Blowin’ a load up his chest like he’s really eighteen again.

Catch your breath.

_Well!_

Hand clap.

_Hellova show, little brother. We should do this again some time._

Tears on Sam’s cheeks. (Don’t bother me none.)

“Get out.”

**

You don’t sleep anymore. (Shoulda seen that comin’.) Nights, you rattle around the Bunker, look at cartoon porn and poke through storerooms. Ain’t like you’re worried about curses.

Find a plastic shoebox tub. (Huh.) Tucked behind a hex box in a streak of disturbed dust.

Pictures. You and Sam. Mom and Dad. Bobby, Cas, Ellen, Jo. Some of the Campbells even. Charlie. Jody. Fuckin’ Garth.

Letters and postcards. (Fuck. I sent him this one in Palo Alto.)

Ticket stubs. Concerts, movies. (I was so pissed off about Jar Jar Binks.) Ballgames.

(Sammy kept these? All this time?)

**

“What’s this?” Wary eyes under sleep-wrecked hair.

Sam’s desk. Shit you collected all laid out. Warded cuffs. Pages of Latin. Syringe.

 _You won’t take my blood, Sammy._ (Stubborn little shit.) _So-uh. I guess… Gimme yours.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Lines lifted from S10e03 “Soul Survivor” by Brad Buckner and Eugenie Ross-Leming, and S10e02 “Reichenbach” by Andrew Dabb.


End file.
